"I won't go a step farther, heathen! I'd rather lie down on the dead
leaves and die; at least I should not see your damned visage--huh!
Unbeliever! It's easy to see that you don't wear the cross! Is it a
Christian's business to drag along a road like this, and what are we
pushing on to? The rods of the centurion. I won't go a step farther."
Aragaris hauled him on by main force, and, when the road became more
practicable, carried shoulder-high the whimsical companion who kept
abusing and pummelling him all the time and shortly fell soundly
asleep on those mighty pagan shoulders.
At midnight they reached the gates of the Roman camp. Everything was
still. The drawbridge had long been raised. The friends had to sleep
in the wood near the hinder gate, usually called the Decumanal.
At dawn the trumpet sounded. The nightingale had been singing in the
misty wood; he ceased, frightened by the warlike notes. Aragaris
snuffed the smell of soup and woke Strombix. They made their way into
the camp and sat down near the cauldrons. In the principal tent near
the Pretorian gate the Cæsar Julian was keeping watch.
From the day on which he had been nominated Cæsar at Milan thanks to
the protection of the Empress Eusebia, Julian had applied himself with
zeal to soldierly exercises. He not only used to study the art of war
under the direction of Severus, but desired moreover to master every
detail of the work of the rank and file. Within sound of the trumpet,
in barracks, on the Campus Martius in company with new recruits,
during whole days he would learn to march, to use the bow and sling,
to leap ditches, and to run under the heavy weight of full marching
order. He became also an adept in swordsmanship.
The blood of the race of Constantine, a race of austere and obstinate
warriors, woke in the young man and overcame his monkish hypocrisy.
"Alack! divine Iamblicus and Plato! if you could only see what your
pupil is becoming!" he would sometimes exclaim, wiping the sweat from
his brow.